


Gone

by Emmithar



Series: Whumptober 2020 [6]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Drunk Arthur, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26941216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: After being injured in the trolley crash back in Saint Denis, Arthur's attempts to take care of himself only make things worse.Whumptober 2020Prompt #6: Please 'Get It Out'Prompt #10: They Look So Pretty When They Bleed 'Blood loss'Prompt #26 If You Thought Head Trauma Was Bad 'Concussion'Prompt#30 Now Where Did That Come From? 'Wound Reveal'
Series: Whumptober 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953217
Comments: 5
Kudos: 59
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Gone

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Self-harm and Self-mutilation. Read at your own risk 
> 
> Thanks to Darling_Jack for helping out with this idea!

He could count on one hand the number of times he's been drunk like this. He's always been one to hold his liquor well. Able to down one bottle after another, with no thought and hardly any recourse. Able to sleep it off and wake in the morning as though he hadn't just drank his weight in beer and whiskey.

Dutch had been the one to introduce him to such a sin at a young age. Had let him devour one bottle after until he had puked and passed out in his own mess. The man had figured he'd let him do it once, completely supervised, and that it would teach him about the virtues of sobriety. Of watching how much he consumed.

If anything, it only drove him to it time and time again. Because Arthur now knew how far he could go before he hit that tipping point. He quite enjoyed that feeling; utter bliss, total absolution of the weight he carried with him every single day. Sure, every once in a while he would over do it, but Arthur had gotten good at keeping himself in check. Only allowed himself to get shit-faced drunk on certain occasions. The rejection of Mary had been one. He had proposed, stupidly. Had, obviously, been turned down. Had found solace in the bottom of a bottle.

And again, with Eliza. With Isaac. Their loss punching a hole straight through his gut. One that he couldn't fill with a bottle, but tried to do so anyway. Had spent the following month more drunk than sober, Dutch and Hosea both keeping a close eye on him, working the bottles from his hand whenever it became too much.

Time passed, wounds healed, and he gotten control of himself again. Hadn't allowed himself to drink himself stupid until that night in Valentine with Lenny. That had been an unfortunate misjudgment on his part. Too wrapped up in getting the kid's mind off of Micah's stupidity that he hadn't kept himself in check. Had ended up in jail that time, and it was through pure luck neither of them had ended up hanged.

Arthur hadn't gotten drunk like that since then. Not until now. Not until the pain drove him to it. The flurry of the days events still echoed in his head, vibrant and persistent, nagging at him. He had known even before they stepped into that station that it was a bad idea. That Bronte wasn't to be trusted. But Dutch insisted.

Dutch was adamant it was their _final_ big score.

A god damn trap, more like it. One they barely escaped. The whole force it seemed was on them. They had taken refuge in a trolley, had sped along the streets, unable to stop. Arthur barely shouting the warning to 'hang on' before it went careening off the tracks. He had ended upside down, ears ringing, vision white, his entire body on fire.

But they couldn't stop. Arthur, high on adrenaline, had pushed himself to keep going. Had led the way out of that car, onto the streets. Had pushed back the first wave of the law. Lenny had taken the lead then, Dutch shortly behind, the man with a hand pressed to his head, complaining of his own hurts. It was all Arthur could do to follow, to shout out the encouragements. He had hung back, had given them the time to make some headway.

In the end, they had barely made it out alive. All of them covered in blood and filth, all of them sore and hurting. All for a measly fifteen dollars. And the damn quarter...he shook his head, bringing the bottle to his lips, hand shaking as he downed the last of it. The glass discarded in the growing pile at his feet.

His head swam.

It wasn't until he got back to Shady Belle, and up to his room that he noticed. The length of metal, thick as a finger and twice as long lodged into the flesh of his upper arm. Skewered through his bicep like a damn pig. Most likely from the crash itself. It had gone through in such a way that it had clotted the blood, and with the ache that coursed through his sore body he hadn't noticed anything wrong. Still, it wasn't like he could just leave it in there. The grimace splitting his face as he grabbed it, pulling it out, slowly. A curse split the air when only half of it came out. The rest stuck _inside_ of him. For a moment he panicked. 

It had to come out. 

The thought unpleasant, seizing his insides, and it took a moment before he calmed down enough to try, the reassurances falling on deaf ears as he tried to remind himself that it was no different than digging out a bullet. Lord knows he had done that more than once, but it didn't make it any easier. Especially when the last one he dug out had been given to him by the O'Driscolls. Damn fools...

At least this time, he was more prepared. The glass heavy in his hands as he downed one bottle after another. Each time telling himself that  _this_ was going to be the last one. The pile growing at his feet, and for a brief moment, he had forgotten  _what_ he was even doing this for. Until his eyes lazily traced his body, coming to rest on the open wound slowly dripping blood on the bed below. Oh...right...that's what he was trying to do. 

He opened another bottle. The opening pressed shakily to his lips. He couldn't even feel the burn anymore. Couldn't taste it, barely aware as it slid down his throat. The bed tilted under him, the ground unsteady and he found it hard to keep his eyes open. He wondered, mildly, if he was drunk enough yet. If it had been enough to dull the pain he knew would follow. Guess there was only one way to find out. 

He set the bottle down, fingers shaking as he picked up the knife. The blade resting against his skin, his breath hitching as he dragged it along the surface. The tip caught the hole that was already there. He grit his teeth, forcing it in. 

Some pain. 

Not bad though. Arthur let out a breath, then cut deeper. New blood, all fresh and bright red, ran down the length of his arm. Staining the sheets below. Collecting on his pants, dripping to the floor. He had carefully peeled his shirt away from the wound, and now sat, half-naked, a knife lodged in his arm as he tried to find the piece he still knew to be in there. The tip digging deeper, pushing further into muscle, a hitch in his breath, a curse falling from his lips as he squeezed his eyes shut in pain.

Why the hell did it have to hurt so damn much?

But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Infection killed just as fast and easy. So he dug in deeper. And just then...just then felt it. The tip hitting the bit of metal, nudging it. He could feel it move, the sensation weird by all means, but it was there. 

He had found it.

Arthur twisted the knife. Clenching his teeth as white hot pain laced through him, his eyes squeezing shut as though he might banish it and shove it back down to where it belonged. A curse broke through the silent air, the tears brimming in his eyes. It was gone...he couldn't...couldn't feel it anymore. 

Arthur let out a whine, his gut churning. He let his hand drop, fingers clutching the knife desperately as he drew in shaky gasps. He needed to get a hold of himself, needed to find the resolve to keep trying. Knew that he was running out of time. But his head was pounding in tandem with his heart. Far, far too fast. Weakly he grasped the bottle again, brought it up to his lips. Forcing more of the wretched stuff down. He let out another gasp as he let it drop, empty, his head hanging heavily between his knees. His vision wavering, spots appearing before his eyes. The knife was clenched in his fingers again, that resolve found. The words, echoing in his head.  _Move quick, get it out, get it over with._

He brought the knife back up. Lined it up with the already opened wound, using the blade to brush aside the blood. As though it made a difference. He wasn't sure where it all had come from. An endless supply, coating his arm. He pushed it from his mind, focused on the task at hand. He felt the tip catch on his skin, new slices forming. More blood pouring forth. He plunged it in, deep, swearing as it cut through skin and tissue, the cry breaking through the still air. He had to get it out...had to get it...he just had to… to…

* * *

His head still hurt. An ache that blossomed from the back of his head, to the forefront of his eyes. Throbbing with a vigor all of its own, in a way he had never felt before. On a positive note, he was no longer seeing three of everything. That had to be a good sign. A promise that it would pass, he knew, given enough time. Dutch had slept off the worst of it, collapsing in his bed upon his return, fully dressed and not even bothering to remove his boots. A few hours had passed before he grudgingly pulled himself up, knowing there was work to be done.

Because Bronte had shown him up. Bronte had made him look like a fool. Arthur's words ringing in his head. What were they going to do about it? 

The bank was a prime target, perhaps their one hope. Their salvation. The money there far more than enough to secure a boat and ship them to the safety of Tahiti. But it would be fully guarded, no doubt, even more so after their latest stunt. Bronte had to know they were looking. The man would not suffer their presence there any longer. Which meant...Bronte needed to be taken care of. 

That was what he and Hosea were arguing about. To Dutch, it was all too clear of what must be done. But Hosea felt different. Had said he was fool for going after the trolley, had even advised him against it in the beginning. Too late for that, Dutch knew, but perhaps the worst part of it all was the fact that Hosea was keen to let it all go.

Like he could let any slight go. 

Despite his peaceful boasts of old, revenge burned at the forefront of Dutch's mind. Bronte felt as though he was  _better_ than them. That  _he_ deserved his wealth, while simpler folk like him and his people did not. That the simpler folk should just rot in a swamp. Dutch was more than willing to show Bronte  _exactly_ who was worthy of rotting in the swamp. The thoughts blossoming in his mind, all edged on by the fuming headache that refused to ease up.

Dutch knew he should rest. He hadn't been this wounded for quite some time, and he wasn't as young as he used to be. Waiting was perhaps the best course of action, but Dutch knew that they didn't have the luxury of waiting. 

Not if they wanted to get ahead in this life. 

He ignored Hosea's insistence, leaving the man behind to stew in his own indignation. The damn fool wouldn't help him, that was for sure, but there were others. Arthur, for as sour and cynical as the man could be, had never been able to deny him. And damn it to hell, if Arthur was the only one he could get to follow, then that was all they need, the new goal in sight. A burst of energy propelling him up the stairs. 

Still, the climb to the second floor left him dizzy and winded, and he had to pause a moment to let the world stop spinning. He clung tightly to the rail until he felt the world straighten, and then he made his way down the hall. Head held high as he pushed his way in, words already falling from his lips.

“Arthur, we have business to attend to-”

His words, dropping off, voice seized in horror as he took in the sight before him. Standing there, dumbfounded, his eyes tracing the room. It looked like some sort of damn massacre had happened in here. And it wasn't just what he was seeing. Oh no...his nose curling as he inhaled. 

Dutch wasn't sure what was worse. The stench of booze, or the heavy metallic tang of blood. 

And Arthur ...Arthur sat hunched over himself on the edge of the bed, his skin far... _far_ too pale, a copious amount of blood coating him. His entire arm drenched in it, his lap coated, an entire goddamn puddle forming on floorboards beneath him. He could see the man was shaking, unintelligible curses escaping his lips as he dug something into his flesh. The blade barely visible underneath all that blood.

“What in the _hell_?” 

It was all he could manage. But it was enough. Arthur flinching at his words, acting as though he had been caught in an unseemly act. Lazily his hand dropped, his chest heaving as he drew in guttural breaths, his eyes hazy and in no way normal. 

“Dutch?” Arthur breathed, the confusion clouding the single word. As though he couldn't figure out why the man was here. His voice was heavy; slurred and far away. And he stared at him for the briefest of moments, mouth agape as he panted heavily. Then without missing a beat he brought the knife back up, plunging it back into the bloody mess that used to be his arm. Dutch's heart stopped, his breath caught in his chest as he watched the gruesome display; he had forgotten how to breathe. But a pitiful cry from the man shook him from his trance, and Dutch found himself moving.

Crossing the gap in a few brief steps, his heart racing as reached a hand out, yanking the knife from the man's hand before he could do anymore damage. The blood warm and sticky, coating his own fingers as he glanced down at it, sickened by the sight. Hurriedly he tossed it to the ground, his stomach rolling uneasily as he stood there, taking in the man's appearance. Arthur simply sat there, his gaze falling to his open hand, fingers opening and closing slowly as though he was dumbly wondering where the knife had even gone. 

“Arthur?” 

He was almost afraid to say anything. But the sound of his name had him raising his head, pupils wide and his stare blank, as though he was looking right through him. As though he wasn't standing a few feet in front of him. 

“ _Shit._ Come on son, let's-” Dutch swallowed, glancing around, looking for something, anything... the bed sheet, pushed to one side, already stained red. It would have to do. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

But the man was shaking his head in response, his fingers reaching up and digging back into his mutilated flesh. “It's in there, Dutch...gotta get it out...”

Dutch didn't know what  _it_ was, didn't have the time to even question. He grabbed Arthur's hand, yanking it away from the wound. Watching, with a growing unease as the blood pooled quick and fast, the wound deep and angry. Christ sakes, what had the man done? 

Later...he could worry over that later.

Without thought he pulled the bed sheet free, bundling it up quickly with one hand. With the other, he grabbed the man's wounded arm, pulling it towards him and pressing the fabric against the worst of it, trying to staunch the bleeding. Arthur hissed under his hold, but he wasn't trying to pull away. He wasn't trying to fight him. That, at least, was a blessing. Arthur could be a hellion to deal with when he was hurt...Dutch fought back the nausea that was creeping up on him. This, perhaps, was the worst he had seen. He needed help...

He turned, Hosea's name falling from his lips without thought. He hoped, vaguely, that the argument they just held hadn't sent the man off wandering in attempt to cool down. 

A whimper brought his attention back, Arthur pressing his forehead against his shoulder, the man shaking against his frame. Damn was he ever drunk; Dutch hadn't seen him this way since...since Isaac, he realized. The thought sat ill with him, one foot kicking aside the empty bottles piled on the floor. There were far too many...

He called for Hosea again, louder this time. Panic racing through him as the bed sheet was nearly saturated. Dutch clamped harder, ignoring the groan it brought forth. Desperate to stop the bleeding. At the rate it was going, then he would....

Dutch turned at the footsteps, nearly sighing in relief as the man pushed his way in. The words gruff, but the irritation fell from Hosea's face as he too took in the scene. He too, stood fast just as Dutch had, but only for a moment. The man had composed himself far quicker, and was by his side in an instant, taking over his hold. Dutch moved to let him in, all too happy to relinquish responsibility, but even so he stayed close. Arthur was still leaning against him, fast and shuddering breaths escaping him in near pants. 

“Calm down, son. You're going to be okay,” he coaxed, bringing bloodied fingers up and working through tangled locks of hair. The man let out another whimper as the sheet was pulled away, Hosea inspecting the ruined flesh. 

“Found the damn fool slicing his arm up,” Dutch breathed, eyeing the wound warily. “I don't know what the hell he was thinking.”

“It's in there,” Arthur breathed, the explanation weak on his lips. 

“Ain't nothing in there, Arthur,” Hosea responded quietly. Reassuringly. He was dabbing the wound, watching as the man screwed his face tight. The words coming out through gritted teeth.

“Still there...can...feel...the damn thing....”

“You got it out, son,” Dutch encouraged him quietly when Hosea shook his head. “It's gone. You did good.” He still didn't know what _it_ was supposed to be. Hell, as far as he knew, the man was delusional. Had to be, given everything he had done. 

“Can’t-” he sputtered out even as he shook his head. “Have to get it out, Dutch-it's gotta- it hurts-”

“It hurts because you sliced your damn arm up, Arthur,” he cut him off, anger in his voice. That anger settling when he saw the man flinch. His eyes still squeezed shut, an attempt to battle off the agony. Dutch had no doubt that he was in quite a bit of pain, but anger was winning out over the pity. What a damn fool he was. Still...he did his best to not let it show. He could be angry with the man later. Dutch cleared his throat, attention focused back on Hosea. 

“How bad is it?” 

He wasn't sure he wanted an answer. He had seen it, the slightest glimpse. Half the muscle carved away, the glint of bone visible through all the blood. Hosea was still there, still pressing the cloth tight against the wound, a frown playing on his lips as he answered.

“Not good. Here, keep hold of this nice and tight. I'll get Grimshaw to heat some water, and we'll clean it out real good. No doubt it'll need stitches, and then...we'll have to see.”

“Should we take him to a doctor?”

“Oh sure?” Hosea answered as Dutch stepped in. His voice was dripping in sarcasm, “Should we take him back to the town that you fools just shot up? I'm sure that's a marvelous idea. Or wait, no, we can take him back to Rhodes; I'm sure you've done killed all the fools who ought to remember us.”

“Well excuse me for trying,” Dutch cut him off with a gruff remark. But there was truth in what Hosea had said. Seemed like there was nowhere for them to go. They would have to make do with what they have. It wouldn't be the first time.

He was left there alone, Dutch easing himself down on the bed next to Arthur. The man, still leaning against him, still shaking something fierce. Shit...if he could only calm him down. The words coming out with practiced ease. 

“It's alright, son, I got you.”

His mind was racing, playing over the events once more. Trying, and failing, to discern what  _might_ have happened. What had all led to this event. He was grasping at straws, and trying to get anything from Arthur was like pulling teeth, the man unable to string together more than a few words at a time. His breaths heavy as he hunched over suddenly, spewing, the contents of his stomach spattering over the floor. Adding to the horrid stench that already hung in the room. He grimaced. 

At least the bleeding had slowed. 

Dutch pulled the cloth away tentatively, wincing at the gash that was there. The thoughts floating in his head. How drunk did he have to be to do that much damage? The whisper of the words catching his attention. Arthur's eyes still closed as he mumbled. 

“'M sorry, Dutch...”

It sat heavily in his gut. The apology. And for once, his response was caught in his throat, though he doubted Arthur noticed. The man was barely lucid as it was. Gently, he wrapped the cloth back around his arm, holding it firm. If anything, he was going to need a drink or two himself, if only to purge this from his mind. Perhaps by morning this would all be faint nightmare.

If only it worked that way. This was something he wasn't soon to forget. Right now, though? Right now, Arthur needed him to be strong. So strong he would be. 

He turned, words finally found, his voice far calmer than he thought possible, whispering reassurances. More to himself perhaps, than to Arthur. Reassured him that everything would be okay. They'd get him fixed up. They'd get him better. And then...

Then they would take care of Bronte. 


End file.
